


Fanboy

by luthorienne



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 07:24:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1378882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luthorienne/pseuds/luthorienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ward met Barton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fanboy

“You’re Clint Barton.”

The man at the bar looked him up and down, and then turned back to his drink.

“Am I?” he said dismissively. Ward took the stool next to him.

“Grant Ward,” he said, extending a hand. “It’s an honour to meet you.”

Barton regarded Ward’s hand for an uncomfortably long moment, his jaw working, then reached out slowly and shook it briefly. His grip was firm, his hand cool and dry. He wasn’t smiling. He looked, in fact, like there was a bad taste in his mouth.

“I work for SHIELD –“

“I know who you work for,” Barton interrupted. “Look, I came in to have a drink, all right? I’m waiting for somebody. I’m not looking for company.”

Ward raised his hands in a placatory gesture, and when Barton turned away, he beckoned to the bartender. He pointed to Barton’s glass, indicating to the bartender that he’d have one of the same. He sipped the single malt appreciatively when it arrived, noting the name on the bottle from which it had been poured. Barton sat with his forearms resting on the bar, and appeared to be absorbed in the football game unwinding on the tv screen behind the bar. Ward had no idea who was playing, but even if he had, he was incapable of concentrating on the game, because _he and Clint Barton were having a drink together._

Ward used the time to study Barton surreptitiously. He’d seen the man around SHIELD headquarters from time to time, of course, but never this close, never near enough to talk to. Hawkeye was a legend. Stories of his exploits before and after he’d joined SHIELD, both solo and as part of Strike Team Delta, were told and re-told among the younger agents. Hawkeye had killed more men than Fury had had hot dinners; Hawkeye had once broken a captive operative out of the heart of the Kremlin, single-handed; Hawkeye had mutant vision; in his pre-SHIELD days, Hawkeye had led a mercenary army that had overthrown a small South African dictatorship. Coulson said most of it was nonsense, but there was no doubt some of it was true. Aspects – heavily redacted, no doubt – of Strike Team Delta’s 2010 mission in Budapest were still being taught as an example of how quick thinking and resourcefulness on the part of front-line agents could rescue a mission gone terrifyingly wrong. Speculation about his relationship with the Black Widow floated around the coffee rooms like a pornographic cloud. The Director had been heard to remark that if Barton hadn’t been fighting so hard against Loki’s mind control, the shot he’d taken at Fury at Project Pegasus would have been a head shot, not a body-armor shot, and that would probably have guaranteed a Chitauri win. But even before the Battle of New York, just watching Barton stalk the halls of HQ like a prowling tiger had been a thrill. 

Close up, he was even more impressive. Ward himself was wiry and athletic; Barton was compact, blocky with muscle. In contrast to Ward’s own dark business suit, Barton was dressed in faded jeans, a black crewneck sweater and a black leather jacket so supple it draped almost like silk. There were well-worn, highly polished black combat boots on his feet, and a pair of black aviator sunglasses on the bar in front of him. He wore a wristwatch on a black leather strap, but no other jewelry. He was clean-shaven and neatly groomed, with closely-cropped dark blond hair. Grant looked at the long fingers that cradled Barton’s half-empty glass. The man had big hands, and those combat boots were a fair size, too. His eyes were sleepy, hooded, but Ward was pretty sure he was seeing everything – including Ward’s scrutiny.

“I think we have some mutual friends,” Ward said. Barton gave him a sidelong glance, but didn’t speak. “I did a stint in the Moscow office. Back in 2011. I worked with Evgeny Akulov. He said he knew you.”  


He could see Barton’s jaw tighten, but his gaze was steady on the television screen. 

“I saw you sparring once with the Black Widow. The two of you were amazing. Coulson says –“

Barton’s hand slapped the bar top with a crack, and he turned to face Ward, his steel-blue gaze suddenly focused about three inches inside Ward’s skull. Startled, Ward flinched involuntarily, then silently cursed himself. SHIELD agents aren’t supposed to flinch. But Barton’s grim regard was making him want to shiver.

A slender, pale hand, a bit grimy like a mechanic’s around the knuckles and nailbeds, suddenly appeared on Barton’s shoulder, and Barton slowly unclenched, relaxing under its pressure.

“What’s up, Locksley? You scaring the neighbour kids again?” Not waiting for an answer, Tony Stark – _Tony Fucking Stark,_ Ward’s brain exclaimed – stepped around Barton and gave Ward his back, picking up the dregs of Barton’s scotch and draining the glass in a single gulp. “Come on, babycakes, Tony’s a hungry boy and Pepper’s got us reservations at the Iron Horse.” He threw a fifty-dollar-bill carelessly on the bar and handed Barton the aviator shades, herding him gently toward the door and talking disconnectedly about steaks and – Ward thought he must have mis-heard this part – _robot cats_. In the doorway, Barton paused and looked back over his shoulder for a long moment at Ward, his face expressionless behind the aviator shades. Then Stark stepped between them again, and they were gone. 

“You want another one of those when you get back from the bathroom?” asked the bartender, deadpan, as he collected the fifty and Barton’s empty glass. Glaring, Ward threw down a ten and hurried out of the bar, in time to see a sleek red Porsche being absorbed into late-afternoon traffic. He thought briefly about giving chase, or maybe following to the Iron Horse, but that sounded too stalkery, even to him. He’d drop into HQ instead, he decided, and let it casually slip that he’d had a drink with Hawkeye that afternoon –

“Agent Ward?”

Ward turned, and found himself facing a broad chest clad in a blue checked button-down shirt. He looked up at Captain America. Ward’s brain had apparently run out of italics, but it was definitely Captain America. And he was holding out a hand. For Ward. To shake. 

He shook it.

“I’m sure you were only trying to be a friend to Agent Barton,” the Captain said, “but I guess you can appreciate that the news about Agent Coulson has been a little upsetting for everyone. I’d advise you not to approach him again. Or Agent Romanoff.”

Ward realized uncomfortably that Captain America hadn’t let go of his hand, and that he continued to hold Ward’s gaze. Obviously a response was called for.

“Um. No. Certainly. Of course. Not,” he said. The Captain held his grip for a moment more, then released him. Ward stepped back a pace involuntarily.

“Oh, and Agent Ward?”

Ward swallowed, wearing what he hoped was an attentive expression.

“If you want to contribute to the Thanks-For-Not-Letting-Me-Get-My-Ass-Kicked fruit basket that Director Fury is sending to Tony Stark, there’s probably still time to sign the card.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure Grant Ward is a very nice agent. I just don't like him. Sorry, Ward fans.


End file.
